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“This is your trick, isn’t it?” Michael says to Raymond as Raymond is finding his way out after saying ‘good night, boss’ to him.
Michael is in good mood, tipsy with a few glasses of whiskey down his throat at the ball, which helped him set this little fantasy he built up himself.
They are at home now. Raymond took Michael home from some ball that Ros asked him to escort her where she could talk business to some of her clients.
It’s just a ball, and Michael hates balls. No pun intended, seriously. But Michael does hate those prestige chandeliers, the renaissance domes, the ass-kissing merches and the poor yet vainglorious royalties.
Also, this is Rosalind’s show, in which case Michael is the trophy ‘wife’ to stay posh and quiet, to bow and smile. It’s his due diligence, a favor returned to her for what she had done for him.
And Michael does not feel emasculated at all in doing this. Why would he? His queen has taught him more than enough to keep his ass intact. And he always respects a woman. Besides all the feminism shit the capitalists trying to sell, Michael loves Ros, and would give his life to her. She is his wife, his lover, his best friend, his ally, and his family. He loves her.
Although he has to admit as time goes on among the identities he gives her, she is pivoting more and more to the latter three from the first two.
At first when Michael sensed that, he fretted about it. He even got petty at one point, pathetic even. And the rock bottom for him was when he started to calculate the frequency of their sex, and even considered to see a counsellor to evaluate his performance. Eventually his paranoia got too obvious and Ros almost confronted him, and thank god she did not, instead she only needed to give him a look over breakfast. Michael finally knew he’d hit his new low, even lower than that one time when he almost got shot by Aslan’s hitman.
In the end, Michael accepted this change. Fuck, everything changes. Even a king like him was thinking about retirement, which is kind of ridiculous considering the nature of his line of business. How could he not accept the fact that the love his of life evolves to be his family from a hot sexual fantasy?
Hell, after decades working in Britain, Michael has truly been gentrified.
“What do you mean, boss?”
Hearing Ray’s voice, Michael comes back from his moment of sulking in his head and looks up.
And there he is, Raymond fucking Smith, Michael’s fidus Achate, his right hand, his lion heart. The man he can rely his life upon and in turn take Raymond’s life from him.
Raymond has worked for him since Michael got to England. He has worked for him, saved his life, and almost gave his own life to Michael more than just a couple of times. It’s a shame that Michael can’t remember their first few years working together. For a business man who built his kingdom on the mountains of flesh and rivers of blood from his rivalries, Michael’s brain does not really leave a lot of space for the transcript of his memoir, which although was one of his retirement to-do items before he changed his mind and scratched this whole retirement thing off his list.
Anyways, Raymond has been one of the most important assets of Michael’s. Sometimes it would scare him a bit when he looks at Raymond thinking his whole kingdom would topple if this single man betrays him. And Michael has to admit begrudgingly that Raymond has more value to him even than Ros.
Back to the reality, apparently Michael’s gaze is too intense and so is the long pause of his silence. Raymond has to ask again.
“What is my trick, boss?” Raymond asks, raising his right hand to adjust his glasses.
“That!”
Michael leans forward from his leather armchair and points at Raymond, to his face.
Raymond frowns and looks at him with questioning eyes, then points at his glasses.
“These, you mean, boss?”
“Yes!” Michael nods and bounces up from his chair. He saunters toward Raymond, who is standing awkwardly at the door of his study.
“You, you wearing glasses,” Michael says, waving his hand around Raymond’s face, finger tips dangerously close. He stops and leans against his mahogany book cabinet and continues.
“Why would you wear them anyways? You are not shortsighted, not that I know of, nor are these reading glasses since they don’t turn your eyes into fucking cartoon light bulbs. And even if you were short-sighted and do need something, why not wear contacts?” Michael looks at him, arms crossed, head tilted, “as a man who’s mobile on a daily basis, contacts are much more convenient than those clumsy frames.”
Raymond blinks, self-consciously adjusts his glasses again, and looks down, away from Michael’s gaze. After a few seconds of silence, he simply says, “I like glasses, boss. They go with my style.”
“Ah, your style,” Michael nods knowingly, “your style, of course. Your glasses, your waxed pulled-back hair, well-trimmed beard, nice silk tie, slick button-down shirt, wool vest, and your immaculate trench coat.” He says and reaches out his hand, drawing imaginary lines around Raymond, only an inch too far from actually touching him, but close enough to make his posture tense. And Michael likes that.
“A true British gentleman,” Michael concludes in the end.
Now they are close, dangerously close. Michael can feel that Raymond’s OCD is kicking in and he is getting really uncomfortable. However, he stays still, not flinching or retreating, for his loyalty to Michael and his indignity as a man won’t allow him. And Micheal just stays there and watch, like a predator watching his prey, feeling a tinge of guilt-painted pleasure building up in his belly.
After some time, Raymond recovers to his normal meticulous self and smiles.
“You are still not telling me what my trick is, boss.” says Raymond quietly.
“Well, I think your trick is,” Michael says again, pauses, pursing his lips, and continues, “I think your trick is that you don’t need your glasses to compliment your style. You are wearing your glasses as a disguise.”
“A disguise?”
“Yes.” Michael says, and reaches out his hand again, but stops just a centimeter away from snitching the glasses from Raymond’s nose bridge.
He asks, “may I?”
Raymond does not answer, and Michael can see that his jaw tenses. But he still doesn’t say anything, so Michael takes that as his consent, goes ahead and takes his glasses off.
He puts the glasses on himself and sees nothing changes in front of him.
“Like I said,” Michael says in triumph.
As the glasses were taken, Raymond’s hair was messed a bit. Raymond tugs the strands behind his ears.
“And my question is, Ray,” Michael waits till Raymond looks up at him again and says, “what is it that you are disguising from, Raymond? What are you hiding from me?”
There is a flash of shock in Raymond’s eyes, and it disappears before Michael can make further speculation.
“I don’t hide from you, boss.” Raymond says sternly.
“You don’t?” Michael asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Never, boss.” Raymond says, staring right into Michael’s eyes.
Michael does not need courage and permission from anyone or anything, but he does feel that by wearing Raymond’s glasses he is fueled with some mysterious power, and justified to do something outrageous.
Michael looks at Raymond’s eyes, and then his lips. He leans closer to Raymond, close enough to feel his warm breath and hear his racing heartbeat. Michael keeps going, aiming for those inviting lips, at least he thinks they are inviting, before Raymond steps back, and raises his hand in front of his chest, a gesture of keeping his distance.
“Boss, Ros may be coming back at any minute.” Raymond reminds him.
Michael looks down and smiles. He licks his lips and shakes his head.
“Nah, I don’t think Ros is coming home at all.”
Michael is not making an assumption or an educated guess. He knows for sure from the way Rosalind nodded at him and gave him the look before he left the ball. Ros is finding her company tonight with one of the lucky bastards at the ball tonight, and Michael is fine with that.
The couple made the arrangement a while ago when they discovered their relationship had shifted to be platonic, and a separation would be too complicated and shit-stirring. Besides, they didn’t want to leave each other either. They had become family, part of each other’s life. So they agreed to this new type of open relationship. And Michael has to admit, it works great. Especially now.
Michael smirks and steps forward to Raymond, closing the gap Raymond made a minute ago, and puts his hand on Raymond’s neck, thumb rubbing his earlobe softly.
He reassures Raymond, “and even Rosalind comes back tonight, she will be fine with this.”
Raymond looks at Michael, confused. And Michael has to bite his lips, seeing him looking so adorable and innocent. These two words are the complete opposite to his vocation, but at the same time suit him very well.
Michael sighs eventually and pulls Raymond closer, slowly and undeniably. At the same time, he whispers, “and now since you said you don’t hide from me. You will be honest with me, right, Ray?”
“Yes, boss.” Raymond nods.
“You will tell me if I’m doing anything you don’t like, or you don’t want, right, Ray?”
“Yes, boss.”
Honestly, Michael knows what he just said to Raymond is absurd. It’s not like Raymond would ever say no to him. He never did before, and Michael is quite confident that he will never in the future either. So it’s in vain for him to tell Raymond that he could say no to whatever he is going to do with him.
However, as Michael has known himself, he has been gentrified, and it is his duty to show his respect and asks his love for his consent.
Love. Oh that scares him a little. Michael does not love much in his life. He’s too busy to indulge himself in this unstable and dangerous sentiment.
But then, Michael confirms with himself, he does love Raymond. The mere fact that he allows himself to trust someone so much is the strongest evidence to convince the jury for his love for him. Maybe what he’s about to do with Raymond is new, which is not true since Michael has done this with other men when he was younger, but the sentiment has been there long before, rooted in him long before he could even recognize it.
But Micael is not going to tell Raymond that. He’s not known for his expressions, but his actions. So at this moment of revelation, he leans in and kisses Raymond. Lips pressed to his, hands tugging his hair, Michael takes the action to claim, to reign as the king he is. And to his triumph, Raymond kisses him back, arms wrapped around his waist, head tilted for his convenience, lips parted for Michael’s access to his warm, welcoming tongue.
After a prolonged, hot, sloppy kiss, they rest against each other’s forehead, breathless. Eventually Michael recovers and pulls back, looking at Raymond through the glasses, and asks him jokingly, “how do I look, Ray?”
“You look good, boss.” Raymond says, between his shallow breaths.
“Call me Michael,” He says.
“Michael.”
Michael enjoys sex. He enjoys the sensation of being close to someone, allowing himself to strip off his daytime shield and be complete honest with someone. He enjoys the thrill of being vulnerable and intimate. And in the meanwhile he feels strong by taking ownership of someone, taking and at the same time giving.
And right now, it feels even better than Michael has ever felt before. With Raymond moaning and shivering beneath him, taking him in slowly and stead with small whimpers, it feels like heaven. And Raymond is such a beautiful scene for him to witness, holy even. Michael always knew this man has the face and body of a greek god, but never has he thought he would be blessed to see him in bed, messed up in ecstasy like this.
Raymond’s torso is warm and smooth against Michael’s, his hands are gripping hard on his shoulders, and he wraps his strong legs tightly around his waist. Michael holds Raymond down with their connection, and thrusts himself into him in a steady pace, feeling his inside hot and tight around him, watching him moan louder and louder. Raymond is perfect, as if he’s made for Michael. And as Michael feels that Raymond comes on his chest, and that he himself gets to his climax and clenches his arms around Raymond as he comes, he feels a rush of regret for the sex to be over.
But the next morning, when Michael wakes up in his bed beside Raymond sleeping on his stomach, covered in marks he left on him, safe and sound, he feels happy and content again. These words are too naive and simple for him, maybe, but that’s really how he feels. And Michael takes this moment to indulge himself. He watches Raymond sleep for a few minutes, reaches over his hand and plays Raymond’s hair between his fingers. Finally, Michael kisses Raymond on his forehead before he rolls off the bed and puts on his silk robe.
Michael walks downstairs and sees Ros in the kitchen, sipping her coffee. When she sees him, he could see her smirk over her cup at him.
“Good morning, love.” Michael greets her as he walks up to her and gives her a peck on the cheek.
“Slept well?” Ros asks, raising her eyebrows in curiosity.
“Yes, you?” Michael says and pours himself a cup.
“I knew you two would get in the same bed. It’s a shame that it took you so long.” Ros says to Michael instead of answering him.
“You did?” Michael asks and turns to her.
“Of course. And I’m off to the shop. Good day, darling,” Rosalind smiles and puts down her cup. She looks up and smiles toward the stairs, “good morning, Ray.”
“Morning, Rosalind. Sorry to interrupt.”
Michael hears Raymond’s voice and turns to look at him. He is surprised when he sees Raymond in his attire from last night with his glasses on and his hair back, as if he just arriveed to pick Michael up to the pub.
How the fuck did he get the time to do all that? Michael marvels at him, sipping his coffee.
As Ros closes the door behind her, Michael pours a cup of coffee and hands to Raymond.
“Thanks, boss.” Raymond says awkwardly as he take the coffee.
“Michael.” Michael reminds him.
“I prefer to call you boss, when we are not…” Raymond replies and pauses before he can finish.
“Not fucking?” Michael says with a smirk, and continues, as he sees Raymond’s ears turn burning red, “do as you please. Also, you are still wearing those glasses?”
“I can take them off if you don’t like them,” Raymond says.
“Who says I don’t like them?” Michael says as he comes close to Raymond and kisses him on the lips, tasting the bitter coffee on his lips.
Feeling Raymond’s lips chasing his a bit as he pulls back, Michael does feel it a shame that it took so long for him to do this with Raymond. But he has him now, and that’s enough.
Michael watches Raymond adjusts his glasses and looks up at him, the emotions in his eyes changing from flustered to calm and faithful, like the way he is as always, as how Michael knows and trusts him. Suddenly Michael realizes that he was an idiot. He was an idiot to come up with his theory last night about Raymond doing his trick with his glasses.
Raymond was telling him the truth. He never did any trick with his glasses. Nor has he ever disguised from Michael. He has always been the same to Michael, looking at him the same way as he is looking at him now. It is only that Michael has been too oblivious to figure this out until now.
—FIN—